Coffee and Cigarettes
by musouka
Summary: A few glimpses into what Hal and Dave do when they're not saving the world. Some are amusing, some serious. Takes place between MGS1 and MGS2.
1. Notes

**"Coffee and Cigarettes" Notes--**   
I hesitate to call this odd little grouping of mini-fics a series, simply because they are better classified as short explorative writing samples. If anything, they are more like quick little glimpses into everyday slices of life for our two "Philanthropy" heroes. That's the only thing really tying them together. I'll start out with one--though I have a couple more written--just to see if there is interest in this sort of fic. 

Some of these are humorous, some pointless, and even a few introspective ones. Most are only a few pages long. I go through "Otacon" and "Snake's" first mission together as a team, what happens when Snake can't get his nicotine fix, and even the less-than-choice location of their office. I suppose I wrote them because I really liked the portrayal of their friendship in MGS2, and sort of wanted to explore how it got to the point it did... 

I don't think there are any real warnings. Sometimes the boys have a tendency to cuss, and if vague musings of former Snake/Meryl and Otacon-->Sniper Wolf aren't your thing, then you'd best avoid. 

The general title takes its name from the first story in the collection. I thought it conveyed the feeling pretty well. 


	2. Coffee and Cigarettes

  


**Coffee and Cigarettes**   
Dave finally comes shuffling out of the bedroom, his undershirt bunching up as he scratches an itchy spot on his abdomen before he makes his way towards the bathroom. I would mention that the hot water heater is broken once again--maybe later I'll grab the toolbox and threaten it into behaving with the largest wrench I have; I have to teach it who's boss after all--but when "The Legendary Solid Snake" has that look on his face, you keep your mouth shut. 

Dave has been suffering through withdrawal. 

Well, actually, I've been suffering right along with him, but at least I've managed to retain my sense of humor. It's, uh, just had to go into hiding when he's around, that's all. Hey, it's funny...just not to him. 

Nicotine is a nasty little bitch, isn't it? 

One could make a good case that I'm even nastier for imposing the ban on cigarettes in the headquarters/bedroom while I'm around, but you don't have to deal with that horrible smell. Spending the night wheezing and coughing doesn't exactly help me greet the day with a smile, and while I don't want to play the traditional "allergies" card, smoke does happen to be one of the few things I'm allergic to. 

Besides, I haven't said that he has to stop altogether. It would be better for him, obviously, and I'm not about to stop telling him that just because he glares daggers at me whenever I bring the subject up. But, I can only suggest that he stop. In the end, it's up to him... 

Judging by the incredibly loud string of curses coming from the direction of the bathroom, I'll assume that Dave has just discovered the lack of hot water. I bet that woke him right up. 

Anyway, usually there's enough for me to do--running errands, calling on people, ect--that there's enough time for Dave to get in his daily three packs of nicotine laced smoky bliss, but I've been inside for the past few days. 

Mei-Ling passed along some information concerning a Metal Gear being built that has had me running in circles trying to verify it as true. From what I've managed to coax out of the Pentagon's computer files, it looks promising...but if Dave and I are going to actually do anything about it, I'm going to need to figure out a way to gain access to some of the higher level files. 

I grabbed approximately two hours of sleep last night--the first time I've slept in three days as a matter of fact--trying to discover the location of the base where the construction is taking place. 

Finding the area is only part of the problem. We have to arrange untraceable transportation--no rental cars for us, obviously--and get basic data on the machine itself. At least enough to sabotage it beyond repair. 

Only one thing has kept me going through the grueling hours spent at my computer. Coffee, also known as the nectar of the gods...well, at least as far as I'm concerned. 

Yeah, I drink a lot of coffee. Even on regular days I can polish off five pots easily. I know Dave would love to say something about it when I start lecturing him about his smoking habit, but there haven't been any studies linking coffee to cancer. I'm sure he'll be the first one to bring it up should one be discovered, though... 

Speaking of Mr. Sunshine, here he is now. I greet him with a cheerful "good morning" and get a patented "Solid Snake growl of irritation" in return. About what I was expecting, actually--either that or a silent "fuck you" gesture. 

His mood actually darkens as he peers out the windows at the rain beating against building. Wordlessly he disappears back into the bedroom, only to reemerge a few moments later, this time clothed in a worn pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt. 

He glances at the storm outside, and I can see the gears turning in his head. After that he turns his eyes to me sitting at the table, sheets of data strewn about in a nearly indecipherable mess and then back to the pelting rain. 

Finally he makes up his mind. 

"I'm going for a walk." It's the first thing he's said all morning, unless you count the cussing and growling. "Be back soon. Don't get too far ahead without me." 

"I'm not working out the plan right now." I explain before taking another sip from my coffee cup. "Just going over plausible design specs from what I've gathered." 

He doesn't give me an answer, but I know he heard me anyway. I can see the telltale outline of a cigarette package in his back pocket as he walks to the front door, sans umbrella. 

I manage to quash my laughter until he gets to the elevator; dare I hope that his mood will "miraculously" improve by the time he gets back from his soggy "walk"? 

One more gulp drains my cup. Hmmm, time for another pot of coffee. 

I've only had two pots this morning, after all, I am trying to cut back.   
  
  
  


_owari_


	3. Speech of Figures

**Speech of Figures**

  
  
  


I can _hear_ his smile before I can see it. 

A funny thing to say, one might think, but Hal even has a different way of walking when he's happy about something. He's like a little kid with a candy bar. 

Only one thing causes this reaction in him. He's gotten a new model kit in the mail. 

The distinct sound of brown paper being ripped off a box proves my hypothesis correct as Hal walks into the room. He looks over at me, a frown creasing his brow slightly. I take one more deliberately long drag on my cigarette before banishing it to an adjacent ashtray. Hal makes a honest attempt to look disapproving, but he's in too good a mood to keep it up for long. No matter how many times I've tried to make it clear that if I want to die a long painful death from lung cancer, I'll damn well do it, he still considers it his duty to try and save me from myself. Yeah, it can get obnoxious, but I think I'd be a hell of a lot more likely to get _really_ annoyed if his intentions weren't so...well, _good_. 

"Have they thanked you yet?" I ask as he goes through the familiar motions of gathering his supplies and spreading the plastic model pieces out on the table. 

"Huh?" He pushes his glasses up from where they had slipped down to the tip of his nose and sends a quizzical expression my way. 

"Those Japanese model manufacturers." I clarify, feeling my lips lift into a smirk in preparation for what's coming next. "After all, considering the amount of money you spend on those things, I just figured that you were probably their main source of income..." 

It's a valid point. His collection has slowly but surely been overpowering our bookcase and any readily available shelf space. And, speaking personally, it's a little bit creepy when you begin to find them in the bathroom, guarding the soap. 

Hal rolls his eyes in response and lets out an equally sarcastic, "Ha. Ha. Just because you don't have a hobby to occupy _your_ spare time..." 

"I have hobbies." I reply, motioning out the window at my handiwork for good measure. 

"Using the pigeons outside as target practice is _not_ a hobby." He insists. 

"How about those gigantic mutant cockroaches in the kitchen? Does shooting them count?" 

"I prefer to pretend they don't exist..." 

I can't really blame him for that one. If those things got any bigger, we could charge them rent. 

Lacking anything more constructive or interesting to do, I eventually meander towards where Hal is carefully sanding down the edges of what appears to be a leg of yet another robot. Quite frankly, I can't tell one from the other, but if you ask Hal, he can name every single one. It's just one of his little idiosyncrasies. Part of what makes him Hal, in a matter of speaking. Just like all that caffeine he drinks and his penchant for baggy clothing that practically hangs on his skinny frame. 

"Don't you find it the slightest bit ironic that you're lovingly constructing a model of something that looks remarkably similar to what we spend the vast majority of our time trying to destroy?" I finally ask. It's meant to be another teasing jab, but I'm surprised when I see him stop his quick efficient motions and take off his glasses, wiping the lenses in a slow methodical way that speaks more of an excuse to gather his thoughts than any real attempt at cleanliness. When he speaks, his voice is serious. 

"You know, when I was a kid, I used to watch anime on television all the time. Stuff like "Battle of the Planets" and, later on, "Robotech". In those types of shows, the hero was always strong, the type of guy that always gets the girl and saves the world. Even back then, I knew that I could never be like that... 

"But then, I would look at what they were _using_ to save the world--those giant robots, and I saw the way that perhaps...well, maybe even if I wouldn't be in the spotlight, I could contribute _something_ to making the world a better place. Kinda like Patlabor--" 

He can tell by my expression that the name means nothing to me, so he stops to explain. 

"In that show, the _mecha_ is used in general labor. Yeah, there's some of it that's used for war, but the whole series focuses on a police force. They're trying to _stop _the badguys. 

"Anyway. They never showed the engineers on shows like that, but I could imagine that they felt so much pride when they saw their work go out and save the world. One of the first things I ever drew was a picture of the inner workings of one of those robots, trying to figure out how something like that could feasibly work. Though I wouldn't be in the center of that action, maybe, when I looked out the window, I could see a machine that _I _built flying past. 

"Of course, now that would be more like a nightmare." His smile turns brittle. "All of this Metal Gear fiasco is my fault. Those are _my_ design specs out on the black market. Instead of using my work to help people, right now governments all over the world are pouring over my sloppy handwriting and trying to decide if there's any way to add an extra gun port to the side or more nuclear missiles. 

"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to atone for my crime. Every time another person out there is killed by or because of a Metal Gear unit, it's as if I stuck a gun to their head and pulled the trigger. 

"These--" He makes a motion to the parts scattered on the tabletop. "Are as close as I'll ever get to my original dream. At least when I'm building these, I know that no one is going to use them as weapons..." 

Hal's shoulders slump, like a broken toy. I should be saying something to make him feel better right now, but I can't seem to make the words come out. I know I'd just say the wrong thing. 

It makes me wonder for the first time in my life, if it isn't easier not to have a dream, rather than allow one to turn into a nightmare and break you. I've never had to worry, because I didn't have any dreams. Maybe, I was lucky... 

The silence stretches on, thick and heavy. 

"Here," I finally shatter the stillness by reaching out for a piece of fine grain sandpaper. "Give me one of those legs. I'll help." 

Hal looks at me for a few moments before complying with my request. I'm relieved to see a familiar smile ghost across his face once again. 

"You don't have to do it all on your own." I remark, carefully attacking the rough edges with precision. 

Another one of those smiles I can hear before I can see. 

"Thanks, Dave." 

He understands what I'm trying to say.   
  
  
  


_owari_


	4. Interlude: I

**Interlude: I**

  
  
  
  


"Don't you _ever_ sit still?" It comes out more as a growl. 

I've never been particularly good at being patient, and the endless drumming of Hal's fingers on the table was beginning to drive me nuts. I swear, the man is a living twitch. He couldn't stop moving if his life depended on it it; if he's not fidgeting with something on his desk, he's tapping on it like a deranged woodpecker who's just overdosed on sugar. 

I say it's all that damn caffeine. 

He stops for maybe a thousandth of a second before continuing where he left off, face drawn in thought as his eyes flicker across the computer screen. 

"You wouldn't last a second on the field." This gets his attention. He tucks a strand of his unruly hair behind his ear and pushes the chair to where he can meet my eyes. 

"Well," He begins, grinning from ear to ear. "Maybe that's why you're the one off doing all the dirty work while I get to be the brains of the operation." 

I sit up from my lounging position on the couch and take aim at his smirking face with a pillow. 

Bullseye. 

His shout is muffled as I get up and saunter towards the bedroom. At least it'll be quiet in there. Before I make it through the door, however, a soft projectile hits me on the back of the neck. The pillow. I turn around to look at Hal, but he's staring at the screen again with a look of practiced innocence. 

He always has to get the last word in... 

I can't help but grin in spite of myself. After all, when all is said and done, he's actually not that bad a shot. 

Another quick throw and a muffled yelp similar to the first one escapes his mouth. I shut the door before he can retaliate. I hear a dim yell about not playing fair, but I ignore him as I settle back on my bed and reach for a magazine. 

There's no fairness in war. 

And I count pillow fights in that category...   


  


_owari_


End file.
